Parked outside the trailer was an old Chevrolet Impala. Moffitt made a note of the license tag before popping the trunk (where he found a canvas rifle case and a five-pound carton of beef jerky), checking under the seats (two roach clips and a mangled Outmagazine) and unlatching the glove box (the video cassette now playing in his VCR).

Moffitt turned off the tape player and opened a beer. He wondered what had happened while he was out of the States, wondered where the white-trash robbers were. Wondered what JoLayne Lucks and her new friend Tom had been up to.

He dialed her number in Grange and left a message on the machine: "I'm back. Call me as soon as you can."

Then he went to sleep wondering how much he ought to ask, and how much he really needed to know.

Mary Andrea Finley Krome sparkled like a movie star.

That's what everyone at The Registerwas saying. Even the managing editor admitted she was a knockout.

She'd gotten her short hair highlighted and her nails done, put on tiny gold hoop earrings, pale-rose lipstick, sheer stockings and a stunningly short black skirt. The coup de grace was the rosary beads, dangling sensually from Mary Andrea's fingertips.

When she entered the newsroom, the police reporter turned to the managing editor: "Tom must've been nuts to walk out on that."

Maybe, thought the managing editor. Maybe not.

The elegant widow walked up to him and said, "So, where are they?"

"In the lobby."

"I just came through the lobby. I didn't see any cameras."

"We've got ten minutes," the managing editor said. "They'll be here, don't worry."

Mary Andrea asked, "Is there a place where I can be alone?"

The managing editor glanced helplessly around the newsroom, which offered all the privacy of a bus depot.

"My office," he suggested, unenthusiastically, and headed downstairs for a Danish. When he returned, he was intercepted by an assistant city editor.

"Guess what Mrs. Krome is doing in there."

"Weeping uncontrollably?"

"No, she's – "

"Doubled over with grief?"

"Get serious."

"Rifling through the desk. That's my bet."

"No, she's rehearsing," the assistant city editor reported. "Rehearsing her lines."

"Perfect," said the managing editor.

When they got to the lobby, crews from three local television stations were waiting, including the promised Fox affiliate. A still photographer from The Registerarrived (properly sullen about the assignment), boosting the media contingent to four.

"Not exactly a throng," Mary Andrea griped.

The managing editor smiled coldly. "It is, by our modest standards."

Soon the room filled with other editors, reporters and clerks, most of whom didn't know Tom Krome very well but had been forced to attend by their supervisors. There were even clusters from Circulation and Advertising – easy to spot, because they dressed so much more neatly than the newsroom gang. Also among the audience were curious civilians who had come to The Registerto take out classified ads, drop off pithy letters to the editor or cancel their subscriptions because of the paper's shameless left– or right-wing bias.

One person missing from the award ceremony was the publisher himself, who hadn't been especially shattered by the news of Tom Krome's probable incineration. Krome once had written a snarky article about a restricted country club to which the publisher and his four golfing sons belonged. After the story appeared, the membership of the country club had voted to spare the sons but expel the publisher for not firing Tom Krome and publicly apologizing for exposing all of them to scorn and ridicule (Krome had described the club as "blindingly white and Protestant, except for the caddies").

The managing editor would have loved to use that line (and a dozen other zingers) in his tribute to Krome, but he knew better. He had a pension and stock options to consider. So instead, when the TV lights came on, he limited himself to a few innocuous remarks, gamely attempting to invest the first-place Amelia with significance and possibly even prestige. The managing editor of course invoked the namesake memory of the late Ms. Lloyd, noting with inflated irony that she, too, had been cut down midcareer in the line of journalistic duty. Here several reporters exchanged doubtful glances, for the prevailing gossip held that Tom Krome's death was in no way connected to his job and was in fact the result of imprudent dating habits. Fueling the skepticism was the conspicuous absence of Krome's own editor, Sinclair, who normally wouldn't pass up an opportunity to snake credit for a writer's good work. Obviously something was screwy, or Sinclair would have been in the lobby, buoyantly awaiting his turn at the lectern.

The managing editor was aware of the rumors about Tom's death, yet he'd made up his mind to venture out on this limb. One reason was his strong belief that local authorities were too incompetent to sort out the true facts (whatever they were) about the fatal blaze at Krome's house. And in the absence of competing explanations, the managing editor was willing to promote his newspaper's first Amelia as a posthumous homage to a fallen star. If, come spring, Krome's tenuous martyrdom still hadn't been shot down in a hail of embarrassing personal revelations, the managing editor might just try to float it past a Pulitzer committee. And why the hell not?

"My regret – ourregret," he said in conclusion, "is that Tom couldn't be here to celebrate this moment. But all of us here at The Registerwill remember him today and always with pride and admiration. His dedication, his spirit, his commitment to journalism, lives on in this newsroom ... "

Inwardly the managing editor cringed as he spoke, for the words came out corny and canned. It was a tough audience, and he expected to hear a muffled wisecrack or a groan. Quickly he pushed on to the main event.

"Now I'd like to introduce someone very special – Tom's wife, Mary Andrea, who came a very long way to be with us and share some memories."

The applause was respectful and possibly heartfelt, the most vigorous burst erupting (out of gung-ho reflex) from the crisp-shirted advertising reps. Slightly more reserved was the newsroom crew, although the managing editor snapped his head around upon hearing a crude wolf whistle; one of the sportswriters, it turned out. (Later, when confronted, the kid would claim to have been unaware of the occasion's solemnity. Bearing late-breaking news of a major hockey trade, he'd been hurrying through The Register'slobby toward the elevator when he had spotted Mary Andrea Finley Krome at the podium and was overcome by her rocking good looks.)

As she stepped to the microphone, the managing editor presented her with the standard slab of lacquered pine, adorned by a cheap gold-plated plaque. An appalling etching of the late Amelia J. Lloyd, full-cheeked and chipper, was featured on the award, which Mary Andrea enfolded as if it were a Renoir.

"My husband ... ," she said, followed by a perfect pause.

"My husband would be so proud."

A second burst of applause swept the lobby. Mary Andrea acknowledged it by hugging the Amelia to her breasts.

"My Tom," she began, "was not an easy man to know. During the last few years, he threw himself into his work so single-mindedly that, I'm sad to say, it pushed us apart ... "

By the time Mary Andrea got to their imaginary backstage reunion in Grand Rapids (which, she'd decided at the last moment, sounded more romantic than Lansing), the place was in sniffles. The TV cameras kept rolling; two of the crews even reloaded with fresh batteries. Mary Andrea felt triumphant.

Twenty seconds, my ass, she thought, dabbing her cheeks with a handkerchief provided by the managing editor.